Time to Re-Up . . .

The web host tells me it's time to pay for another year of lowerlevel30.com

I figure if I'm paying for something, it's best to might as well use it.

Last week, I returned home from an after work function with a sack of dbl dhzbrgs and a pretty decent buzz. I'm shoving these things into my vile maw when The Girlfriend tells me that the next door apartment, the one that was recently vacated by its former tenants, is unlocked. I immediately give a smile, revealing teeth behind the half chewed burger. I see what she wants. Finally, some Last Tango action.

We'll lay naked and awkward on the cold floorboards. The streetlight casting a dim glow in the streaks and long shapes through the blinds and across the walls of the outer dark. Every sound our bodies make will create an echo that resonates through the empty space like a concert hall at full-tilt. We'll be exposed and nervous. Concerned but excited. Decency will wain in this place that belongs to no one and is subject to the rules of no other. What we do in here will defy even the perimeters of our our own bond and of our own agreements. To the other. And unto ourselves.

Or so I thought.

Instead, we compared their kitchen to ours and debated which is the most efficient in terms of space and if that efficiency is at the sake of convenience. Which, I think it is. Which is why we're staying.

When I returned, my dbl chzbrgs had grown cold. And delicious.